Meant for you
by Dreamsand
Summary: Courfeyrac is thinking about a certain poet but finds out that he is already writing a love poem. But who is it for?


**Meant for you**

**Summary:** Courfeyrac is thinking about a certain poet but finds out that he is already writing a love poem. But who is it for?

**Pairing:** Jehan/Courfeyrac. Slash. If you don't like it, don't read it.

**Disclaimer:** Jehan, Courfeyrac and the Musain belong to the wonderful Victor Hugo. And since I am not a dead, male, French writer…

**A/N: **Just a silly drabble I wrote during school today. I know I haven't posted in a very long time, I have been writing but nothing seemed right.I'll try to post more from now on. This is also my first slash story.

**---**

Jean Prouvaire, Jehan for friends, sat at his usual corner table in the Café Musain. Before him laid a piece of paper, scribbled with poetic lines and words. He held his pen between his long, gracious fingers and tapped it softly against his lower lip. His brow was furrowed in utmost concentration while he murmured something inaudible under his breath.

In another corner sat Courfeyrac, watching his friend intensely, marvelling at the beauty of his face in the candlelight. Not so long ago he had discovered his feelings for the poet but they still confused him. He knew exactly how to act around girls but Jehan wasn't a girl and losing him would feel a thousand times worse than losing any girl he ever knew.

Courfeyrac rose from his chair and walked up to the poet. With a quick movement he snatched the paper away, without paying attention to Prouvaire's objections.

"My eyes turn to heaven, my feet stay on the ground," he started to read out loud. The Musain was empty except for the two of them but Jean's cheeks burned a scarlet red already.

"Your eyes burn into my aching heart and mend the cracks left by loss." Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow to him. A love poem? Who would be so lucky to receive this?

"Our fingers brush and I feel the lightning racing trough me like a gale after a hot summer day," he still read on. Finally Prouvaire managed to set hands on his writings but the other refused to let go of it.

"Give it back Courfeyrac," he whined, "It's not finished yet." At that his tormentor smirked but didn't loosen his grip. Instead, he moved his hands forward over the paper so he was holding it more firmly.

"What will you give me in return ma chère," he teased, his eyes gleaming with expectation. It seemed to him that this was the last chance to seduce Jehan. The lucky person who was the object of his affection would steal him away after they read the poem.

Courfeyrac lifted his eyebrow in a suggestive way, it made the poet blush even fiercer but neither of them stepped back.

Their hands made contact over the paper and jolts of electricity surged trough both their bodies.

"What do you want in return then?" Jehan wasn't going to give up so easily and looked his friend, his secret love, directly in the eye. Courfeyrac was stunned, it wasn't like him to look so daring, although it wasn't unpleasant at all.

"Your pick – what is it worth to you?" He smirked again but this time the grin was stopped by Jehan who placed his lips on Courfeyrac's.

His lips were soft, like his hands, and a little tentative at first. But when the other didn't pull away he deepened the kiss. Stumbling back they leaned against a wall, not wanting to break apart. They clung together as if holding each other was the only lifeline left in the whole world.

When they finally broke apart the poet rested his hand against his lover's shoulder and sighed contently. Courfeyrac still held his arms around him, keeping him close to his body. Softly he stroked his hair, the hair he had rummaged his fingers trough just a moment ago.

Still something troubled Courfeyrac. The poem. It had clearly been a love poem, but he had kissed him back hadn't he? Would that mean that he had forgotten about this person the poem was about?

Not wanting to disturb the moment he pressed his lips against Jehan's again. Locking him between the wall and his body. "I need you," he mumbled softly into the other's ear, along with those sweet nothings that felt so right.

"Who was the poem for ma chère?" he dared to ask when they had settled on a chair again. The poet was sitting on his lap and leisurely twirling a strand of the other's hair around his finger.

"Are you really to blind to imagine that," he smiled softly, replying with a sweet peck on the lips, "it was meant for you all along."

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**A/N: **Reviews make my day very sunny! And I love the sun! Please take half a minute of your time to tell me what you think, it won't hurt. Constructive criticism is welcome but no flaming "s'il vous plaît".


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